My gentle bully

Hanni Pham

This shit’s fire.” I mumbled around the assortment of food that I had ravenously stuffed into my mouth. A stunning combination of flavors pierced my taste buds as my stomach settled, offering me a satisfying reprieve from my earlier hunger. I tasted the refined, malty crust of no-doubt quality bread, the tanginess behind the impressive multitude of vegetables that I didn’t even know existed, and the novel, exciting taste of shining dishes brimmed with delectable toppings that were almost foreign to me.

I had never eaten like this in my life. There was never any chance to.

Money was the least of my problems, or had been, I suppose. The key focus for as long as I could remember had always been one thing: survival. And apparently that was something I excelled at. An orphan almost since birth, I can’t remember what my parents looked like or even who they were. To this day it still remains a mystery.

I grew up on the streets, stealing from open delis and outdoor markets just enough to feed myself for the day. I never had the luxury of eating homemade soup or freshly delivered fast food. No spicy pizzas and fancy cakes for dessert. And much less high-grade gourmet delicacies from classy restaurants like the one I was in right now.

So excuse me for wanting to make the most of my food. And excuse me for my inherent lack of table manners.

I was aware of the looks of distaste that I was receiving from some of the other patrons dining here today. None more so than the man seated at the table in front of me, jaw muscles grinding tightly in disapproval as he watched me eat.

“Indeed it is,” He said, pursing his lips.

I silently looked up at him while I was in the middle of stuffing my face again. His inflated sense of self-worth and perceived superiority were etched into every feature of his boyish face, all the way from his cleanly shaven jaw and sharp chin to his narrow eyebrows that pinched in annoyance and his slicked back hair that matched his dark, lively eyes. I could almost smell his arrogance, much like the overuse of husky cologne, emanating from the impeccable designer suit he now wore, having chosen it from a wardrobe I knew all too well was almost as big as his ego. Every conversation with him was unimaginably dull and sterile, which overall wouldn’t be that much of a problem if he knew how to keep his dick in his pants.

But even that was too much to ask of the great marsh Whatever-his-last-name-was. The pervert I guess. Although you could barely even call it that. I’m not sure about what he felt for me, nor do I care, but atleast I can eat

The only warning Cara had given me was to not cross this man. To not upset him. Because I would regret it. And I regret it I'm here full of bandages everywhere

I sigh, but the money part was truly awesome. Time and time again we would meet either at his multi-million dollar residence or by the luxury strip of enormous shopping malls and exorbitantly priced restaurants in the heart of  seoul city. Bitch would let me pick out whatever I wanted from whatever store we entered, and would pay for all of the expensive meals we had to share at top-of-the-line dining establishments. He clearly believed that money could win people over,

And so those were the reasons I pushed my self-control to its limits by holding my tongue whenever he made a condescending remark. Why I resisted the urge to smack him when his lips peeled back in a disgusted grimace. Why I decided not to cut off a certain body part of his when he tried to have sex with me. I instead took the diplomatic route of drugging him and gaslighting him the next morning. I’m practically an angel so I'll never want to have sex with oldman with mind control by d'ck

But my patience at this point was beginning to run extremely low. Dangerously low. I think one single chastising word would be enough to send me over.